The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two

by G. Wells Taylor

  “Wait driver!” Updike interjected remembering the Angelic message. “This brother is here for me.” He moved past the driver toward the walking corpse, steadying himself against the instinctive repulsion he felt.

  “My poor brother. How terrible has been this change for you!” Updike spread his arms to accept the corpse’s horrific embrace. He looked into the sad, wise face as he approached—at the gray skin and yellowed eyes. And there was a tug of recognition. Updike recognized something of the living man remaining in the lifeless gaze. A great knowledge lurked there, like the promise of food in the husk of a seed.

  “My way is long, brother.” The dead man’s voice was thin and reedy.

  “The road is long.” Updike admired the man’s spirit. He was speaking to one of his own—a shepherd.

  “I have heard the word of the Lord. And with the word was a command that the righteous should hear.” Again, Updike felt great sympathy for the man. He could hear the deep current of passion that throbbed behind the sad face of death.

  “Hallelujah!” Updike squeezed the hard dead shoulders. “Speak this command to me and I shall bear the burden come what may, even in death.” The flesh beneath his fingers was plastic, but pliant—it stayed the way his hands kneaded it.

  “I heard the Lord’s voice just moments after my…” he said and paused, for a second of acceptance or emotion, “translation.” The dead man’s eyes were bright and rheumy. Blinking mechanically, he continued, “I knew not what the message was upon my learning of it, but as I look upon you, the words crowd my tongue, and so I shall speak it.” With that, a power entered the dead man’s voice—an echo of life, and he said:

  “Corrupt men have gone out from among you and enticed the inhabitants of their city, saying, ‘let us go and serve other gods,’ gods whom you have not known, then you shall inquire, search out, and ask diligently. And if it is indeed true and certain that such an abomination was committed among you, you shall surely strike the inhabitants of that city with the edge of the sword—utterly destroying it, all that is in it and its livestock, with the edge of the sword. And you shall gather all its plunder into the middle of the street, and completely burn with fire the city and all its plunder, for the Lord your God; and it shall be a heap forever. It shall not be built again. So none of the accursed things shall remain in your hand, that the Lord may turn from the fierceness of His anger and show you mercy, have compassion on you and multiply you, just as He swore to your fathers. Do what is right in the eyes of your Lord.”

  Updike knew the words, Deuteronomy 13:13-17. He had pondered their power in the past. So fierce was the God of Moses’ time—so decisive. So exacting in His worship. The words were spoken long ago when the time of Holy War was upon them—and to hear them spoken again when the final war foretold in the Bible approached. The preacher had both feared and relished the day when the bugles would sound.

  “My brother!” Updike drew the dead man close. “Just as it has been foretold. We shall muster a holy army unknown in all our history.”

  “The flesh is corrupt,” the dead man said. Updike was uncertain if he was speaking of the flesh in the human context, or if he meant his own so he addressed both.

  “We shall cleanse the flesh when we liberate the soul!” Updike held the dead man at arm’s length. “But first my brother, we must prepare you for the mission that lies ahead, for all of His fine ministers must be duly anointed and cleansed. You have been translated my brother, and now we must help you shed the unclean burdens of your former life.” Updike led the dead man toward the waiting limousine. The driver seemed nonplussed, hesitating a moment before opening the door.

  “Make way!” proclaimed Updike. “You are in the company of God’s messenger.”

  “But sir!” The driver seemed embarrassed. “I’ll have to pay for—damages.” His dark eyes roved over the dead man’s spattered attire.

  “I understand,” Updike hesitated. He turned to the dead man. “Your name, brother?”

  The dead man’s face hung slack a moment, his eyes glazed over looking inward. He seemed reluctant to pronounce the name, as though his state would be made real with its utterance. Finally, he said, “Able Stoneworthy.”

  Updike’s mouth dropped open. “Able Stoneworthy?” Almost unrecognizable under the stains and marks of death, but it was him. “The Tower Builder?” He pushed his teeth together. “Of course.” The former recognition came home to him. They had met in the past, on several occasions, but briefly. In those days Stoneworthy’s passions were focused on the Tower, and the future it represented. He had been dismissive of Updike then, but not unkind. The preacher knew that his preoccupation with the past ran contrary to the minister’s.

  “Yes,” the dead man mumbled—his strength was on the wane. “I am Stoneworthy.”

  “Then,” Updike shouted, slipped an arm around the dead man’s shoulders and gestured to the driver with the other. “Get a car blanket—get something, so that this fine Tower Builder can travel in a manner that befits his stature.”

  The driver opened the trunk of the limousine, moved Updike’s luggage, and brought out a gray quilted blanket. He spread this over the leather seat, and then held the door aside as his passengers entered—concern a cloud on his dark features. Updike set the dead man into a comfortable position, gently placing his limbs before him.

  “Rebirth Foundation,” the Captain ordered, as he rubbed Stoneworthy’s cold hand. The airport dropped quickly behind them as the limousine sped down a ramp and onto the Skyway. The City’s jagged skyline loomed over them. Central to it, Archangel Tower pointed at Heaven like a gleaming sword.

  “You must be proud of your work, Reverend.” Updike watched the dead man.

  “We have sinned,” Stoneworthy said in reply.

  “Humanity has strayed from the Word of God. Like an errant child, humanity must not be spared the rod.” The preacher allowed himself that admission of punishment. His dead companion said nothing. “You spoke to the Lord your God?” he asked, finally.

  “He spoke to me. He gave me the message.” There was a mild injection of emotion in the dead man’s voice, but it was not pride. “Because you are chosen.”

  “Hallelujah! We must remind the world of the Lord’s wrath.” Updike watched the Skyway pass. “For there is sin in the City, and for the world to come under the watchful eye of our Lord again, it must change utterly. We must clean the works of man!”

  The dead man nodded. Updike watched him for signs of passion or feeling, but his wounded humanity had slipped below the surface. Putting himself in the dead Reverend’s shoes, Updike knew that there was a great test going on in the minister. Men of God did not lightly speak of war.

  “We shall triumph!” he reassured Stoneworthy. “We shall put the sinners to the sword. And the hilt of our sword shall be a holy cross. Hallelujah! But first, we must offer the Lord’s pity. Only when that is refused shall all our actions be righteous.”

  The dead man nodded—relieved, his eyes blinking slowly, as though he were falling asleep. His dead face wrinkled in a grimace. Pain or acceptance worked molten inside his skull.

  “My poor brother.” Updike stroked the dead man’s stained cheek. “Poor brother.”

  41 – The Silo

  The armored Authority Transport roared off the road spraying tall wet tails from its six solid rubber tires. It catapulted through the twenty-foot steel gate and rumbled up a stone path toward the central complex. The wall around the compound measured fifteen feet in height with spools of razor wire on top. The protected area was roughly square, one mile on each side. In the center was a brick office building beside a massive concrete pad. Twenty-four steel hatches, thirty feet in diameter, evenly divided the pad’s length. There was a well-armored machine gun nest on top of the brick building and soldiers patrolled the grounds. Most of the complex was hidden a half-mile underground, protected by rock and blast-proof doors.

  The security measures were overkill, considering the setting, but
essential. Since the Change, few people traveled off major highways, and fewer still knew or cared about the Westprime Air Defense Missile Station City One. War was unheard of in a world where nature herself had turned on humanity. And most thought that the Middle Eastern Nuclear Holocaust, and the Asian War that followed on the heels of the Change was lesson enough for all. So, few could dream such a defensive measure would be necessary. Station One was situated twenty miles to the south of the City, and formed the lower part of a triangle of such facilities. Station Two described the inland point and Three occupied the northernmost location.

  Despite this misconception, the Prime knew the security was essential. If anything could entice malcontents or terrorists to cross the Landfill, tangle with undead bandits and feral animals; it would be the chance to capture intercontinental ballistic missiles.

  The Prime collected them. There was something familiar and even comforting about the old-fashioned form of annihilation. True, the computerized versions were rendered obsolete by the Change, but the world’s first versions of atomic nightmares were developed in a simple cable and explosive technological world. So, recreating their own arsenals post-Change had been the first order of business for the surviving countries as their populations teetered toward civil war and chaos.

  Before the advance of an interconnected governing Authority, these vestiges of civilizations considered themselves vulnerable to external attack. And as those surviving enclaves evolved into New Age countries with governments similar to Westprime’s the smart ones had secretly elected to work on their own weapons of mass destruction. The raw materials were there. They just had to be retrofitted to a useable post-Change form.

  Prime found the devices comforting because they were a link to a time when death was dished out by human hands, when Infernal and Divine interference was hidden or negligible.

  The Prime’s transport kicked up more mud as it hurtled toward the central building. The Prime had ordered a face-to-face with General Franklin Topp. He was in charge of the base and the Prime owned his ass.

  The General went for a bargain basement price too. He was easily handled, purchased and wrapped. A large paycheck, a Sunsight apartment in the Tower, and a lifetime supply of young prostitutes kept him happy and loyal, if a little tired. The Prime bugged the rooms and offices of all his subordinates and kept round-the-clock surveillance on them. He’d taken great interest in the General’s bedroom at the missile base after a review of the photographs showed the military man killing one of the prostitutes in his care, and paralyzing another with a bayonet. The Landfill had come in handy in both cases.

  But the Prime knew the man’s passions were his undoing, and he purchased the General’s mortal soul outright.

  Vibrations from the wheels made their way through the transport’s solid body and awakened the Prime’s second penis where it coiled uncomfortably under his leg. He gasped and shifted in his seat. Lincoln Carter, his aide, smiled in a good-natured way and asked if the Prime was well.

  “No problem, Mr. Carter. These damned transports are so uncomfortable,” he grumbled. Carter raised his eyebrows before mopping the heavy sweat from his brow.

  The second penis was a gift from one of his Demon allies, or a symptom of the Union. It grew into place weeks after the deal was inked, but had only recently begun to exhibit a life of its own. His penis looked old and tired where it hid behind the curve of his enormous belly. The extra penis looked human, though it was as black as night and of gigantic proportions.

  “We’re here, Prime.” His aide brought him from his reverie with the snap closure of his suitcase. He handed the Prime a sealed leather folder.

  “Thank you, Lincoln.” The Prime shifted into business mode. “And remember our deal.” The transport had stopped at the building’s main entrance. Carter held an umbrella in place as the Prime climbed out of the transport. The leader of the western world did not return the salute offered to him by the guards at the doors.

  Minutes later, the Prime left Carter in the hall and walked into the General’s office. He looked around at the decorations. A few pictures—long dead soldiers and patriots—a tattered flag from the world before the Change. The General’s desk was gray metal with a rubbery black top. On it were a clock, a pen set, and a picture of the General with his wife.

  The Prime threw the dossier onto the desk, and then dropped into Topp’s hardwood chair. He opened the desk’s lower left drawer and pulled out a bottle of Scotch whisky. There were four small glasses. The Prime took two, filled both. Just as he tipped his glass, General Topp came in. He offered him a drink as he refilled his own.

  “Scotch, Topp?” It sounded like a question but it was a command to drink.

  “Yes, Sir.” The General shook hands before taking it.

  The Prime studied his property. Topp was about a pre-Change sixty years old, but wore it well. His body was in good shape, under six feet, and a little thick in the middle. He wore a white peaked cap over a gray scrub brush of hair. His eyes were old, and red rimmed. The bags under them, and the scarlet veins that squirreled over his nose spoke of many late nights, too many for a man pushing 163.

  “General, I want you to remember one thing!” The Prime injected enough strength to menace Topp. “You’re comfortable here because I own you. I don’t mind cleaning up your minor indiscretions—we’re both men of the world. I know how it is. I know this International peace can feel confining. A wolf surrounded by lambs. I am even acquainted with the urge that drives some of us to tie a prostitute to our bed and beat her to death with a hammer. But I will not suffer incompetence!” Having drained the second drink, the Prime slammed his glass down.

  “Prime?” The General was uncomfortable with his own evil. The Prime enjoyed his lackey’s look of dismay.

  “You’re pushing your luck.” The Prime rose and stalked around the desk. He glared at Topp. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

  “No, sir.” Topp’s eyes rolled. He leaned away from the Prime’s bulk.

  “I see a worthless sex-starved drunk,” the Prime snarled. “You have to be sharp. Do you know how dangerous it is to work for me? I want obedience. The moment I see otherwise, I’ll shoot you myself.” He paused, rubbed fat knuckles across the edge of the desk. “I want you sharp.” The Prime’s nose brushed the General’s. “So quit fucking around with the prostitutes!”

  “Yes, sir.” The General had assumed attention. Sweat trickled from his brow.

  The Prime hissed, “I will not write this order down. I will give it verbally, and I expect it to be carried out without hesitation.” The Prime smelled booze from his General. “You will program twelve of our missiles for coordinates that are marked ‘A’ group and another twelve targeted for coordinates marked ‘B’ group.” The Prime gestured toward the dossier on the desk. “You will comply,” he growled.

  The General broke the seals on the dossier, opened it. Inside were a list of attack coordinates and a targeting map. Topp scanned the numbers, looked at the map—double-checked them—then looked up.

  “Prime, ‘A’ group indicates targets inside Westprime territory.” A look of disbelief washed across his face. He compared the coordinates and map again. “Christ, they’re pointed right at the City!”

  “An acceptable risk, Topp.” The Prime allowed a shade of a threat to color his tone. “Do you have a problem with the orders?” He looked Topp up and down for signs of weakness. When the first came, a minor twitch of the left eye, the Prime resisted the urge to break out laughing.

  “I can’t do this!” The General shrank from the Prime’s exposed canines.

  Topp was a jaded old vulture indeed. The missiles targeted a heavily populated city he was paid to protect and all he could think of was his own culpability. Where was the outrage at the proposal?

  “You’ll follow my orders.” The Prime pushed his bulk toward Topp. “I am responsible. You will obey any orders that are issued, unfailingly. Any hesitation and I’ll make you wish you were
strapped to one of the fucking things.”

  “Why?” The General dropped his head to hide the dismay that was bound to come. It was one thing to work out his hungers on defenseless women, another to attack whole populations.

  “I will not negotiate with terrorists.” The Prime gave the General his politician’s smile. “And I have evidence suggesting political groups inside the City are about to stage a coup.” He walked behind Topp and started pacing. “I will not surrender the freedoms of the good people of the City of Light to any invading force.” He gestured to the coordinates. “This is the ultimate response to an aggressor. By this we will be saying: Do not fight us, because we would rather die than live as slaves.” The Prime cleared his throat. “Also, I have reason to believe that Eastprime and Afriprime are considering a first strike option. They fear our strength and so the coordinates in ‘B’ group.” The Prime flipped the sheets in the dossier to show another list of targets.

  “You expect invasion?” Topp was mildly relieved by the new coordinates.

  “I expect Apocalypse,” the Prime snapped at him. “Do you think I would make such a terrible decision for anything less!”

  “Who?” Topp looked at the map, as though a study of it would reveal lurking enemies. “I see targets in Eastprime, Afriprime…”

  “The military mind perceives the threat. I judge them. And the threat I see, I judge worthy of this form of brinkmanship.” He continued to pace, glancing casually at the flag from the pre-Change world. Stars and stripes forever—the Prime stifled a smile. “Let us hope it does not come to that, but you will launch on my command. Do you understand?”

  “Do we evacuate?” Topp’s face was like a child’s.

  “Hardly a threat then… I must be able to trust you to follow my order.” The Prime moved his bulk close to the General’s back.

  Topp snapped to attention. “I can. I will”